


For Better or For Worse

by Lalalli



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Domestic!Fitzsimmons, F/M, Fake Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Green Card Marriage, Humor, Marriage of Convenience, SciTech Era AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8339722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalalli/pseuds/Lalalli
Summary: “We have to get married.”
Jemma blinks owlishly at Fitz, who has shifted his stare from her hand to her eyes.  Her mind is still foggy with sleep, and she does not have the mental faculties to be having this bizarre conversation with him right now.
---------
In which Fitzsimmons’s sham marriage might not be a sham after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you requested a continuation of this drabble and it somehow turned into this monstrosity.
> 
> Fic’s already completed, but I’m breaking this into chapters because I doubt anyone has the time to read an 8,000+ word fic in one go. Plus, this way I can edit as I go. Either way, the whole thing should be up by the end of the day.

Fitz can’t believe it. Simmons - double Ph.D, excels at preparation, youngest to graduate from the Academy _Simmons_ \- allowed her work visa to expire. And now she has to leave.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” Jemma huffs, blowing her hair out of her face as she dumps a pile of over-sized t-shirts into a box. She turns and glares at Fitz at where he’s sitting on her bed, hugging a pillow.

They’ve been cycling through the same argument three times a day for the past two weeks. _How could you let this happen? It’s not like I did it on purpose! How could you be so irresponsible? I just lost track of time - trust me, no one’s more sorry than I am._

“Hey!” Fitz protests when he sees a familiar logo at the top of the box. “That’s my shirt!” He lunges towards to box to grab the shirt and hugs it to himself.

Jemma rolls her eyes. “You haven’t even worn it since we were at the Academy,” she reminds him.

“Yeah, because it went missing at the Academy, and I couldn’t find it!” Fitz points at her accusingly. “And you had it the whole time! At the Academy, at Sci-Tech -”

“Ugh, Fitz!” Jemma shouts over him. “I must have worn this in front of you hundreds of times in the past seven years! How many times have you spent the night here?”

“Seven years! Seven years to give it back and you never did!” Fitz continues, his words crashing against hers like a battering ram, ignoring her attempt to interrupt him. “And it’s not like you never had the opportunity - we’ve been beside each other the whole damn time!”

They just stare at each other, out of breath, their chests heaving, once again at an impasse. And that’s what it takes for him to realize - his own voice saying the words that sums up why he’s so upset. “You’ve been beside me the whole damn time,” he repeats quietly, almost to himself, and it hits him that he’s not quite sure how he’s supposed to function without her. Some time in the past seven years, he’s forgotten how. He looks at Jemma pleadingly. “We have to fix this.”

Jemma shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know how,” she admits.

He leaves that afternoon, accidentally-on-purpose leaving his shirt behind on her bed, with wisps of an idea starting to form in his head. He knows there’s a solution. He’s a literal genius - he has to be able to think of something.

\-------------

It’s 1:30 in the morning when Jemma is awoken by her bedroom door swinging open. She screams - a real, horror movie scream - before she recognizes the intruder.

“What are you doing here, Fitz?” she shouts, clutching at her chest. “Trying to scare me to death?”

She doesn’t ask _how_ Fitz got in - she gave him a key to her flat ages ago. But he’s never used it to barge into her room at the middle of the night.

Fitz doesn’t respond - he just sits on the edge of her bed and looks at her - that quiet, intent look that he focuses on her sometimes, the one that she hasn’t quite memorized yet because it’s still fairly new and she’s not yet used to him looking at her like that. Jemma sits up and runs her hand through her hair. “Why are you here?” she asks again, more quietly this time, calmer now that her heart rate has had a chance to go back down.

Fitz takes her hand - the one closest to his, her left one - in his, staring down at it as though it’s something new - something he’s never seen before. “I’ve been thinking.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Jemma responds dryly.

“We have to get married.”

Jemma blinks owlishly at Fitz, who has shifted his stare from her hand to her eyes. Her mind is still foggy with sleep, and she does not have the mental faculties to be having this bizarre conversation with him right now.

Fitz takes advantage of her silence to rush through the rest of his plan. “I’m a citizen because of my dad, right? So if we get married, we can get you a green card. Then we can keep working on the drones and the Night Night gun and anything else we can think up. And once everything is sorted, we can get a divorce.”

Jemma knows there are so many reasons why this is a bad idea, but she can’t think of any of the moment. “You would do that?” Jemma asks shakily. “For me?”

Fitz looks at her shyly. “You’re my best friend in the world,” he says simply, although there’s nothing simple about the way he loves her with an all-consuming need - the kind of love he assumes is reserved for one’s best friend.

Jemma feels her eyes filling with tears. “You’re my best friend too, Fitz.” She looks down at her hand, sandwiched between his, his long fingers stroking warmth into her cold skin. “I don’t know what to say.”

Fitz removes one hand from hers to reach into his pocket and pulls out a simple white gold band. “Say yes.”

Jemma looks up at Fitz, smiling tremulously, and whispers, “Yes.”

\-------------

Nine months after their city hall wedding (after which Jemma moved her already-packed belongings into the spare room at Fitz’s flat), they receive a letter in the mail from U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services very politely inviting them for an interview at their offices while also working in words like _fraud_ and _veracity_ and _deportation_.

Fitzsimmons look at each other with wide eyes, proving their psychic link by saying simultaneously, “ _Shit._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

Daisy slides into the booth across from Jemma and pushes some index cards away to make room for her drink on the sticky tabletop. “Getting a third doctorate?” she asks.

Jemma highlights a sentence on one of the cards and sets it off to the side. “Preparing for the interview.”

“Where’s Fitz?”

Jemma nods to the back corner of the pub. “Playing darts with Mack. He’s taking a break.” She gestures towards the stacks of color-coded index cards. “It’s all a bit overwhelming, as you can imagine.” She takes a swig of her beer and sets it off to the side, being careful to not let the condensation touch her cards.

Daisy wrinkles her nose and inspects one of the cards, flipping it over. “What do you need all this for?”

“It’s our dossier,” Jemma explains. “The history of our relationship.”

Daisy raises an eyebrow. “And you need to study to remember the past eight years?” She picks up another card and blanches. “Jemma, your first date was not horseback riding in the mountains. No one’s going to believe that. You’re a terrible liar.”

Jemma groans and tosses her highlighter onto the table. “Well, it’s not a real marriage, so it’s all lies, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Daisy picks up a pen and taps it against the table. “Who was your last boyfriend, Jemma?”

Jemma runs her hand through her hair. “Milton.”

“And when was that?”

“Back at the Academy. We broke up right after graduation.”

Daisy nods, looking askance in thought. “Okay, so was there anything special or memorable you and Fitz did together after the Academy?”

Jemma shrugs. “I mean, we went to the Stark Christmas party together our first year at Sci-Tech.”

Daisy grins. “See? There you go. First date.”

Jemma wrinkles her nose. “Really?”

Daisy folds her arms on the table and leans forward. “Really. You don’t need to make up an entirely alternate life - just tell the truth. Or a version of the truth. All you need to do is embellish a little - you’ll be fine.”

A slow smile spreads across Jemma’s face. “You’re brilliant, Daisy!” She jumps to her feet. “I’m going to tell Fitz!”

\-----------

Jemma glances at Fitz’s lap, where his fingers are dancing wildly against his thigh. She reaches over and covers his hand with hers, squeezing affectionately. Fitz glances up at her, and Jemma tries to smile as encouragingly as she can.

The interviewer finishes rifling through the documents they brought in and taps the papers on the desk to straighten them. “May I ask why you did not change your name, Mrs. Simmons?”

“Doctor,” Fitz corrects him automatically.

Jemma raises her eyebrows. “Lots of women choose not to change their names, Mr. Sitwell.”

Mr. Sitwell folds his hands in front of him. “You must admit that it looks a bit suspicious.”

Fitz leans forward, scowling. “Jemma has two Ph.D.s and numerous papers published under the name Simmons! She’s one of the foremost experts in her fields! It’s ridiculous to expect her to change her name to mine when she’s spent nearly a decade making a name for herself!” He’s a bit too loud, simultaneously too aggressive and defensive, and Jemma squeezes his hand again, hoping to convey that although she’s grateful for his defense, he needs to calm down. Unfortunately, their psychic link fails her. “I mean, I only have one doctorate,” Fitz continues. “If anything, I should be changing my name to hers!”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fitz.”

Mr. Sitwell shifts his eyes between the two of them. “Is it in the nature of your marriage to call each other by your surnames? Doesn’t that seem quite...formal?”

“I’ve always called him Fitz,” Jemma explains. “He hates being called Leopold.”

“And Leo,” Fitz adds.

“And Leo,” Jemma repeats, nodding.

Mr. Sitwell flips over a page of his yellow legal notepad and scribbles notes across the top. “Interesting,” he muses. “I also noticed that you didn’t open a joint bank account until shortly after the date we sent the letter inviting you to this interview.”

“That’s because the letter asked us to bring documentation of a joint account!” Fitz protests. “We were doing perfectly fine without one!”

“Mmhmm.” The awkward silence that follows is filled only by the scratching of pen on paper as Sitwell scribbles even more enthusiastically on his notepad. “And so how did you manage paying the bills with two separate accounts?”

“We split it,” Jemma speaks up before Fitz can shout his answer again. “He takes care of rent, I take care of the other bills - electricity, water, internet -”

“Phone?” Mr. Sitwell interrupts. “I notice you’re still on separate plans.”

Jemma presses her lips tightly together. The truth is, it had honestly never occurred to them to get a family plan, but instead she says, “Neither of us could agree on who would go through the hassle of getting a new phone number.”

Mr. Sitwell removes his glasses from his face and levels them with an uneasy stare. “And if you’re lying in bed, which side does your spouse sleep on?”

Fitz thinks back to the last time they fell asleep together. “Left,” Fitz and Jemma answer simultaneously. They look at each other.

“You’re on my left,” they “remind” each other at the same time.

Fitz turns to look at Mr. Sitwell. “Sim - Jemma - she sleeps on her stomach. So I suppose we’re both on the left of the other person when we’re lying in bed.”

Mr. Sitwell flips over another page and writes more notes. “Interesting.”

\-----------

Jemma knows she’s in trouble by the way Fitz avoids looking and talking to her the whole way home. Sure enough, as soon as the door closes behind them in their shared flat, Fitz turns to face her and all but shouts, “What. _The hell_.”

Jemma winces. “I really don’t think it was that bad -”

“Five times a week?! What were you thinking?”

Jemma tucks her hair behind her ear and looks over Fitz’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. “To be fair, all he said was sex. It could have included oral sex, digital penetration -”

Fitz grimaces and Jemma can tell he’s resisting the urge to cover his ears. “Okay, but _five times a week?!_ Is that how often you did it with Milton?” He raises his hand to stop her before she can respond. “Never mind - I don’t want to know.”

Jemma throws her hands up in the air. “Well, I didn’t see _you_ coming up with an answer!” And besides, five times a week is nothing compared to how much she’s been fantasizing about engaging in those activities with Fitz. Which is _completely_ normal, considering that she sees him every day and they’re literally married (even if it is platonically) and she hasn’t actually engaged in the aforementioned activities in ages, so it makes sense that on the basis of sheer exposure, he would be who she thinks about when she, ahem, takes care of her urges.

Fitz glares at her. “Well, I wasn’t exactly prepared for questions on our non-existent sex lives, was I? Because _you_ insisted, ‘Oh, Fitz, this will be a breeze, all we need to do is tell the truth, we’ve been best friends for eight years, how hard can it be?’” He’s adopted that grating falsetto that Jemma _hates_ and she crosses her arms over her chest defensively.

“Well, all the sample questions I found were about how we met and where the microwave is in the kitchen and the tile pattern of our bathroom floor,” Jemma protests. “It’s fine - we’ll just be more prepared for our next interview.”

Fitz collapses onto their sofa. “It’s not fine, Simmons!” he complains. “They’re going to do random home visits!”

Jemma raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “So? We really do live together - it’s not a big deal.”

Fitz gives her a meaningful look. “And how are we supposed to explain sleeping in different bedrooms?”

Jemma feels her heart rate pick up. “Oh,” she breathes.

Fitz buries his face in his hands. “Exactly,” he agrees flatly, his voice muffled.

Jemma forces a smile on her face. “Well,” she says, overcompensating with excessive cheerfulness. “I guess we’re sharing a bed from now on.”

\----------

They spend Sunday rearranging furniture in Fitz’s room and converting Jemma’s bedroom into a guest-room-office hybrid. Fitz’s desk trades places with Simmons’s dresser; his stained navy-blue rug gets rolled up and tossed outside, replaced by Jemma’s newer, significantly less stained, floral-patterned rug. Fitz empties out half of his closet to make room for Jemma’s collection of dresses and silk blouses.

When they’re done, Fitz stands at his doorway, hands on his hips, surveying the room. “Do you think we should buy new sheets?” Fitz asks.

Jemma sits on the edge of his bed and runs a hand over his flannel bedspread. “I like your sheets. They’re soft.”

Fitz scratches behind his ear. “But the tartan sort of clashes with the flowers on your rug, doesn’t it?”

Jemma sighs disappointedly. “I suppose you’re right.”

They go to IKEA and snipe at each other as they make their way through the winding showroom, arguing about whether they should also get matching bedside tables or if they should replace the ratty-but-comfortable recliner in the living room or if they REALLY need that much more storage in the bathroom that it would justify the hassle of building another bathroom cabinet. By the time they reach the middle of the store, Jemma is so annoyed with Fitz that she drags him into the cafeteria to buy him a double-serving of Swedish meatballs in hopes that alleviating his hunger would do the same for his grumpiness (it does, but only for ten minutes).

They go home with new sheets, a completely unnecessary lamp for the living room, a pair of $7 end tables, and the pieces necessary to construct a bathroom cabinet that Jemma promises she’ll build all by herself (though she knows Fitz’s pride will lead him to take over the project halfway through in an attempt to build something sturdier than the pictorial instructions allow).

By the time they collapse into bed, they’re so physically exhausted that it doesn’t even occur to them to feel awkward about their first night officially sharing a bed.

\-----------

Fitz is startled awake before the sun even rises by a knee pressed into his thigh. He grunts in protest.

“Simmons,” he groans as she climbs over him. “What in the bloody hell are you doing?”

“I’m supposed to be on your left.” One of her legs slips into the space between his and Fitz hopes and prays that she doesn’t accidentally nudge a certain part of his anatomy that is currently standing at attention.

(It’s not that he’s aroused, it’s just that it’s way too early in the morning and his very attractive female best friend is pressing her body all over his body and how else is his body supposed to react?)

Fitz presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “What?”

Jemma squeezes into the small sliver of space between Fitz and the edge of the mattress. “We told Immigration that I sleep on your left.” She gives him a not-so-gentle nudge. “So move over.”

“Now?” Fitz asks in disbelief. “We’re doing this now? This can’t wait until tomorrow?”

Although the dark obscures Jemma’s face, he can tell she’s glaring at him. “We could both be back asleep by now if you’d just move over.”

Fitz grumbles under his breath as he rolls to the other side of the bed. It’s still warm from the heat of her body and the pillowcase smells like her flowery shampoo and he kind of likes it.

Not that he would ever tell her that.


	3. Chapter 3

“Fitz, have you seen the chocolate biscuits?”

“The ones that were on the top shelf?”

“Yes, those.”

“Um...I ate them.”

“All of them?”

“Maaaaybe?”

“Fitz! Those were my biscuits!”

“You weren’t eating them!”

“Yes, I was!”

“You only ate two of them!”

“I only bought them two days ago!”

“Exactly! What was I supposed to do? Leave them there to go stale?”

“They weren’t going to - Ugh, Fitz! Two days ago! You don’t eat an entire package of biscuits in two days!”

“Well, what else are you supposed to do with a package of biscuits?”

“I was saving them! For when I really wanted them! For example, right now!”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ll replace the biscuits!”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying, Fitz. I want to eat chocolate biscuits _now_.”

“Okay?”

“...”

“Oh. _Oh._ Right. So...I’ll just pop off to the store and be back in a jiffy, then.”

“Thank you, _dear_.”

\----------

Their first visit from Immigration comes seventeen days after Jemma moves into Fitz’s bedroom. Victoria Hand is stern, with bright red streaks in her hair and black-framed glasses and an expression of perpetual disgust. Jemma knows they’re in trouble before she even begins to ask questions.

“We noticed that the date on your marriage certificate falls within the time span of Dr. Simmons’s deportation proceedings,” Ms. Hand mentions as she walks into their bathroom. “You understand, of course, why we find that suspicious.”

Jemma is grateful that Fitz’s voice is steady and calm when he responds. “We were planning on getting married anyways. We just moved up the timeline a bit. We figured the fancy wedding could wait until later.”

Ms. Hand glances at Jemma. “That must have been disappointing for you. A wedding at city hall.”

“Not at all,” Jemma responds. “A life with Fitz is more important than some party. I honestly never thought about marriage before Fitz. If anything, Fitz was more disappointed than I was. He’s been planning his wedding since he was 13.”

Fitz coughs. “She doesn’t need to know that, Jemma,” he says warningly.

“I mean, he had a scrapbook and everything. His mum showed me,” Jemma continues, unable to stop talking, even though Fitz’s face is growing redder by the moment. “He wanted a chocolate fountain at the reception and for his pet monkey to be the ring bearer.”

Ms. Hand turns to look at Fitz, alarm and surprise on her face. “You had a pet monkey?”

“No, I just thought I’d have one by now,” Fitz mutters bitterly.

Hand tries to squeeze out of the bathroom doorway between Fitz and Jemma, who are hovering nervously and unintentionally trapping her in. “And so how did you propose?” Ms. Hand asks Fitz. He takes a step back to let her through.

Fitz glances at Jemma. “We’d just had a row. It seems so stupid now, I can’t remember what it was about. But it just hit me, while we were arguing, just how long we had been together - not just romantically, but as lab partners and as best friends. And I realized that I couldn’t imagine a life without her in it.”

Jemma feels her stomach flutter at his words and the way his voice becomes more tender as he says them and the way his gaze softens as he continues to look at her and only her.

“So I left and went for a walk. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I went to a jewelry store and bought a ring. And then I walked around some more, trying to think of the perfect way to propose, but all I could think was that I just needed to be engaged to her as soon as possible. I went back to her flat that same night - it was so late, she was already asleep by then. And I woke her up. And I asked her to marry me.”

Rationally, Jemma knows the story has been changed a bit - she knows the reason Fitz rushed to propose was so she wouldn’t have to leave, not because he desperately wanted to start the rest of their lives together as soon as possible. But still, it _sounds_ real and it _feels_ real and she finds herself blinking back tears. “And I said yes,” she adds, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

“And she said yes,” Fitz agrees.

Ms. Hand doesn’t seem to find it as romantic as Jemma does, because she just hums in acknowledgement and walks into their bedroom. She looks in their closet, opens and closes and couple of drawers, and scrutinizes the posters on the wall. “Who decorated?” she asks.

“We both did,” Fitz tells her.

Ms. Hand walks over to one of the dressers and picks up the miniature TARDIS sitting on top. “And Dr. Simmons, you’re okay with these toys in here?

Jemma tugs at the end of her ponytail. “Well, that’s technically a lamp,” she tells her. “And it’s also technically mine.”

\----------

“Come on, Fitz!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

“What’s taking so long? It’s starting!”

“Just getting the popcorn - put this on the coffee table for me?”

“Yeah, sure...why are you sitting like that?”

“Look, I’m not saying you HAVE to scratch my back, but if you feel like scratching something, it’s available to you.”

“Oh, alright, you big baby.”

\----------

In many ways, their lives are exactly the same, despite the change in living arrangements. They go to work together, spend their day side by side in the lab, then go home for dinner. If it was a particularly grueling day, they order takeaway and eat in front of the television, watching either Doctor Who or Syfy’s collection of truly terrible shark movies. If Jemma cooks, they eat at the dining room table, discussing anything and everything, with only brief interruptions from Fitz to complain about the overabundance of kale in her dishes (to which Jemma pointedly responds that he can always cook next time if it bothers him so much, even though they both know that Fitz can’t even heat up a frozen pizza if his life depended on it).

After dinner, they lounge on the sofa and either read a book or scroll mindlessly on their tablets. They occasionally go out for drinks with Daisy and Mack, during which Mack lures Fitz away for a game of pool so that Daisy can interrogate Jemma on the status of her relationship with Fitz.

And really, the interrogation is completely unnecessary because everything is exactly the same. Except for that sometimes they wake up in the morning to find that they’ve curled around each other in their sleep, their limbs entwined and heads sharing a pillow. And sometimes, even though they generally try to give each other privacy while changing, Jemma has caught a couple glimpses of Fitz’s arse, and she’s sure that he’s gotten more than a couple glimpses of her body, as she’s gotten less and less self conscious about changing in front of him. And sometimes, when they’re cuddling on the couch and watching tv, Jemma looks up at his face and gets the completely irrational urge to kiss him senseless.

But other than that, everything is exactly the same.


	4. Chapter 4

“Simmons? What is that?”

“It’s our new armchair.”

“What was wrong with our old armchair?”

“Are you serious? It got the stuffing scratched out of -”

“It was perfectly functional -”

“- when you insisted on cat-sitting for Mrs. Norris -”

“- didn’t even _ask_ -”

“Well, _you_ didn’t ask when you unilaterally decided to bring a _cat_ into our -”

“- _supposed_ to consult each other from now on before we made purchases more than -”

“It _wasn’t_ more than - ugh, just sit!”

“You don’t have to push! ...Oh. I guess it is pretty comfortable.”

“ _Thank you_.”

“I mean, not as comfortable as our _old_ -”

“Ugh, Fitz!”

\----------

Jemma wraps an arm around Fitz’s back as Ms. Hand leaves their flat after her third visit in four months. “Have a good day!” she chirps, smiling way too widely for it to be sincere.

As soon as the door closes behind Ms. Hand, Jemma turns to Fitz, her smile instantly dropping from her face. “I think you should give me a hickey.”

“ _What?_ ”

Jemma sighs. “It’s just that they keep sending her, so we’re obviously not convincing enough. I just think we need to step it up, you know?”

Fitz turns away from her, one hand on his hip and the other dragging down his face. “And how would me giving you a hickey help?”

“It’s proof of physical affection!” Jemma explains. “I mean, it’s not like we can just start making out in front of them - that would be way too suspicious.” She says it as though it’s perfectly rational, even though it’s so clearly anything but.

“We already show physical affection in front of them!” Fitz protests, turning to face her again.

“Well, holding hands is not cutting it, Fitz. It’s too…” Jemma waves her hands in the air as though it’ll help her conjure the right word. “...chaste. We need to show that we’re passionately in love with each other.”

”We could get a cat instead!” Fitz suggests desperately.

Jemma’s brow furrows and her nose wrinkles and her lips purse and it looks like her entire face is collapsing in on itself. “A cat?” she repeats. “How would that help?”

”Pets are a sign of commitment! It’s like having a baby, but without, you know.” He gestures vaguely towards Jemma’s abdomen. “Actually having a baby.”

The look on Jemma’s face tells him that she’s not impressed. Fitz leans against the kitchen counter and shakes his head. “This is crazy, Simmons.”

Jemma sighs. “You’re right. It’s not like it HAS to be you who gives me the hickey. I can always get Daisy or Mack to help me out.”

Fitz gapes at her. “I mean, if you’re really that committed to it, I suppose I can do it.” The words tumble hurriedly out of his mouth before his brain can catch up.

Jemma beams at him. “Perfect. And it’s not like it has to be today - she won’t be visiting again for another couple of weeks at the soonest. So maybe we can plan for the end of the month?”

Fitz clears his throat. “Yeah. Sure. End of the month,” he agrees, wondering how exactly his life got to the point to where he is actually scheduling a date and time to give his platonic wife a hickey.

\----------

“Simmons, the weather report said today that it is much too hot to turn on the stove or oven.”

“Is that so?”

“Uh huh. They said if we try to cook, the police will come and arrest us.”

“Oh dear. What are we supposed to do for dinner?”

“I guess we’ll unfortunately just have to suck it up and go out to eat. What do you think? Thai? Burgers? Italian?”

“I know! I can make a salad! That doesn’t require any cooking!”

“Jemma, noooooo…”

“We have lots of kale, cucumbers -”

“Jemmmmmmaaaaa….”

“There’s no need to whine - you know I’m just joking. Let me grab my purse.”

\----------

Fitz turns to face Jemma on their sofa and rubs his palms against his trousers. He’s nervous, Jemma can tell. She smiles at him and places one hand on top of his, squeezing it in encouragement. He looks up at her with worry in his eyes. “Not to worry, Fitz,” she tells him, though she’s trying to convince herself as much as him. “This shouldn’t take up more than a minute of your time. It’s not a big deal.”

Yup, just two best friends and platonic spouses trying to avoid prison. Not a big deal at all.

Jemma loosens the top two buttons of her blouse and pulls the collar to the side, revealing her shoulder. “I was thinking right here?” she suggests, pointing to a spot halfway between her bra strap and the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “That way, I can cover it up for work, but it will be easily visible the next time Victoria comes to visit, as long as I’m wearing a tank or camisole.”

Fitz licks his lips nervously. “Sure, Simmons. Whatever you think is best.” He leans forward a little, then hesitates. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“Whenever you are!” Jemma winces, hoping that Fitz didn’t notice the enthusiasm in her voice. She tries not to think too much about _why_ the enthusiasm is there.

Fitz leans in the rest of the way and hovers slightly over the spot she had shown him earlier. Jemma shivers as his warm breath ghosts over her skin.

“Alright?” he murmurs, his lips brushing softly over her.

Jemma closes her eyes, tilting her head further to give him even greater access. “Mmhmm.”

And then his lips attach to her shoulder more firmly, kissing and sucking and nibbling, and Jemma feels as though every one of her nerve endings are on fire. She resists the urge to bury her fingers in his hair, to hold him there forever, instead reaching blindly to lightly grasp onto his elbow.

When Fitz’s teeth lightly scrape over her skin, Jemma lets out an embarrassing whimper, and to her great disappointment (and relief), Fitz pulls away. “Are you alright?” he asks worriedly, his eyes searching hers as her eyelids flutter open. “Did I hurt you?”

Jemma just shakes her head, worried that if she says something he’ll see how heavily she’s breathing - which is ridiculous, because all she was doing was sitting there. She has no reason to be out of breath.

Fitz leans forward, and Jemma closes her eyes in anticipation of his lips on her skin again, but it doesn’t come. When she opens her eyes, Fitz is inspecting her shoulder.

“I think that should be good,” he muses, touching her skin lightly with his fingertips. Jemma bites her bottom lip. Really, physical contact has almost always been a part of their friendship, and she doesn’t know why something as simple as him touching her shoulder is affecting her so much. Fitz looks up at her. “Do you want to check in the mirror and see if that’s enough?”

Jemma scrambles to her feet and tries to walk as calmly as she can to the bathroom. The first thing she does after closing the door behind her is to splash cold water on her face to clear her head. Once that’s sorted, she inspects the hickey Fitz gave her. It’s on the small side, but it’s still obvious enough that someone would be able to see it even if they weren’t looking for it.

She wonders briefly, crazily, if she could talk him into letting her give him a hickey. She immediately shakes the thought out of her head. He’s already done her such a huge favor by marrying her - the last thing she wants to do is mess up their friendship just because she suddenly wants to make out with him.


	5. Chapter 5

“Simmons? Why are you still in bed? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“I’m fine, I just...it’s really bad this month, you know?”

“What’s really...oh. _Oh_.”

“And now I’m out of Midol, so I don’t -”

“I can get you some.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. ‘Course. Is there anything else you need? Pads? Tampons?”

“Um.”

“Those heating pad things? I hear those help?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Daisy. You know how she likes to share. Information, I mean. Not heating pads.”

“I think I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“Chocolate? Wine? Ice cream?”

“Chocolate chip cookie dough?”

“The actual cookie dough or the ice cream flavor? You know what? Never mind - I’ll get both. Just. Don’t move. Um, not that you could, but...you know. I’ll be right back.”

“Fitz?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. You’re the best.”

\----------

“Fitz. Fitz, wake up.”

Fitz swats Jemma’s hand away from where it’s jostling his shoulder. “What?” he mumbles groggily. He opens one eye halfway to peek at his alarm clock. “Noooo,” he moans when he sees how early it is. “It’s Saturday, Jem. You know Saturdays are for -”

“Sleeping in, yes, I know,” Jemma cuts in impatiently. “But Victoria’s here.”

Fitz’s eyes fly open. “On a Saturday?” he asks in disbelief, sitting up.

“Yes, and that’s only part of the problem.” Jemma pulls down the shoulder of her robe. “Look.”

Fitz stares at Jemma, taking in her damp hair, her terrycloth robe that she wears after stepping out of the shower (he tries very hard not to think about how it’s currently the _only_ thing she’s wearing), and the smattering of freckles on the skin she just exposed to him. “At...uhhh...what am I supposed to be looking at?” Fitz asks, carefully training his eyes on hers.

Jemma rolls her eyes. “At my shoulder!”

Fitz looks at the skin on display. “I...uh...I don’t see anything. Out of the ordinary, that is.”

“Exactly,” Jemma whispers desperately. “The hickey! It faded! You have to redo it!”

Fitz’s eyes widen in disbelief. “ _Now?!_ ”

“Yes! When else?!”

Fitz gestures towards the door. “Victoria’s waiting in our living room!”

“I know! That’s why you need to stop arguing with me and hurry!”

Fitz groans as he leans forward, reaching around her neck to pull her hair over her other shoulder. “You’re so bossy,” he complains.

“You’re so -” Whatever retort Jemma was going to make is cut off with a gasp when Fitz’s lips connect to her skin. He’s too groggy to have any finesse, and he’s probably using his teeth too much, but she did say to hurry and he figures it’s the quickest way to leave a mark.

He feels Jemma’s fingers tighten on his shoulders. “Fitz,” she gasps. Then louder. “Fitz.”

Fitz pulls away from her. “What -”

And then Jemma’s hand is behind his head and she’s pulling him in again, but this time she’s pulling him into her face and crushing her lips against his.

There’s a reason Saturdays are for sleeping in, and it’s because Fitz needs the extra rest to regain his mental faculties from his strenuous work week. As it is, the only part of his brain functioning right now is his lizard brain, and his lizard brain is telling him that it’s been a really long time since he’s had a good snog, so whatever it is that’s happening right now? Fitz is not going to be the one to stop it.

Fitz wraps one arm around Jemma’s waist and pulls her in closer. She parts her lips against his and he groans as her tongue licks into his mouth. She climbs into his lap and Fitz swears that even in his wildest fantasies, he has never imagined anything so illicit as Jemma Simmons straddling him without any underwear.

He’s operating on pure instinct, and so is she, placing one hand on his chest and leaning forward, pushing him down down down until he’s lying on his back again. She’s hunched over him, like a predator devouring its prey, and her wet hair is falling into his face and it’s quite distracting and won’t do at all. So Fitz wraps one arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist and rolls them over so that he can be on top. He braces his weight on his left arm to make sure he doesn’t crush her, and lets his other hand explore her body. Both of Jemma’s hands are cradling his face, holding him in place against her mouth, as though he would ever think of removing himself from her.

His hand skims down her thigh until he reaches the hem of her robe. He plays with the hem for a few moments, rubbing it between his fingertips, letting his knuckles brush against the skin there, before cautiously, slowly, trailing his hand back up her thigh underneath her robe.

Jemma’s breath hitches and she wrenches her lips away from his. Fitz instantly removes his hand from her leg. “Sorry,” he breathes. “Shouldn’t have -”

But then Jemma’s taking his hand and placing it on her chest, on the triangle of bare skin exposed by the v of her robe. She holds his hand in place with hers, her fingertips lightly dancing over his. They’re both breathing heavily, both a little terrified and a lot turned on.

Jemma guides his open palm across her chest, under her robe, and presses it firmly against her heart. Fitz can feel the beginnings of the swell of her breast and the rapid and heavy thumping underneath her skin.

Fitz searches her face. “Jem, I -”

He’s not sure what he’s going to say, but it doesn’t matter anyways because the loud rapping on the other side of the door startles him, causing him to topple off the bed. “Is everything okay in there?” Victoria Hand calls from the other side.

“Shit,” Fitz mutters. He had forgotten all about her. He climbs to his feet as Jemma springs out of the bed.

“Yes!” Jemma calls back, her voice strangled. “I warned you he’s difficult to get up in the morning!” She laughs, and it sounds both forced and crazed.

Jemma pushes Fitz towards the door. “You have to go out there,” she hisses. “I told her I was going to wake you up and get dressed.”

“But Jemma,” Fitz protests weakly. “I don’t -” And then she’s opening the door and pushing Fitz out and slamming the door behind him. Victoria turns to greet him from where she’s leaning against the kitchen counter and Fitz quickly clasps his hands in front of the tent in his plaid pyjama pants. “Hi...there,” Fitz greets her awkwardly, taking a few steps to the right so he can hide behind their armchair.

Ms. Hand raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Dr. Fitz.”

Fitz scratches behind his ear. “Sorry ‘bout the delay. On Saturdays, I usually-”

“Sleep in,” she interrupts. “Yes, your wife told me.”

“Didn’t know you work on the weekends.” Fitz places both hands on the back of the armchair in front of him, immediately letting go to cross his arms over his chest. With his luck, she’d probably think he’s trying to hump the chair. “It’s a shame, that is.”

Ms. Hand ignores him, instead walking into the living room and sitting on their sofa. “Your wife was just telling me about how you met, before she went into your room to wake you up. Maybe you can continue the story for me.”

Fitz nods. “Yeah. Alright.” He smiles awkwardly at her.

Ms. Hand looks at him expectantly, making a circular motion with her hand in a silent gesture for him to continue.

“Oh, now!” Fitz exclaims. “Right then. That makes sense.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Um, we met when we were sixteen, at the Academy - sort of like a post-doctoral program for our line of work.”

Hand crosses her legs and rests her notepad on her lap. “Yes, she did mention that.”

Fitz tugs nervously on the hem of his shirt. “Uh, we had a few classes together. We didn’t really interact much at first, but I always thought we’d get on.”

Hand raises an eyebrow. “Did you, now?” she asks skeptically, removing her pen from behind her ear and scribbling on her notepad.

“Uh, yeah.” Fitz looks down at the armchair, picking at the loose threads in the seams. “But it took me a while to figure out the right thing to say to her. She was the most brilliant person there - I just wanted to make sure I got it right, you know? Thankfully, we got paired up as lab partners, and we’ve been partners ever since.”

Hand chews thoughtfully on the end of her ballpoint pen. “Interesting,” she muses. She glances at the bedroom doorway. “Dr. Simmons, maybe you can explain why your two accounts of how you met don’t match up?”

Fitz glances at the bedroom, which Jemma has just exited wearing a sundress, her damp hair tied back in a messy topknot. Fitz notes with surprise that the hickey he gave her on her shoulder is accompanied by one more on her neck and another on her chest. Jemma looks at Fitz worriedly. “How don’t they match up?” she asks.

Fitz tamps down the panic roiling in his stomach. Telling the truth was Jemma’s idea in the first place - if she went back to her original plan of telling Victoria that ridiculous story about their meet-cute cliff diving in Australia -

“You said that he hated you at first,” Hand reminds her. “That you were, and I quote, ‘bitter rivals.’”

“What?” Fitz blurts out. “That’s not true.” He turns to look at Jemma. “I liked you from the start.”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on, Fitz. You couldn’t stand me. You didn’t talk to me for weeks. You could barely even look at me!”

Fitz flushes in embarrassment. “Because I was trying to minimize the risk of making an idiot of myself!” he protests. “I was waiting for the right thing to say - I wanted to impress you!”

The corners of Jemma’s lips turn up in a slight smile. “You wanted to impress me?” she repeats softly.

Fitz scratches the back of his head. “I mean...well...yeah.”

Jemma steps forward into his space. “I was impressed from the start,” she confesses. “You were clearly the most interesting person there. Why do you think I followed you around all the time? I thought you must’ve been so annoyed -”

“No - never!” Fitz denies fervently.

Jemma reaches forward and takes his hand. “Well, at least that’s sorted now.”

“So what are your plans for today?” Hand asks.

Jemma shrugs, turning to face her. “Oh, you know. Running errands. Nothing special.”

Hand frowns. Jemma turns to look at Fitz. His mouth has dropped slightly open and there’s a look of hurt in his eyes. “What?” she asks.

“You didn’t forget, did you?” Fitz asks.

Jemma blinks. “Forget what?”

Fitz wrenches his hand out of hers. “Our anniversary, Jemma!”

Jemma scrunches her face in confusion. “Our wedding anniversary?”

Fitz rolls his eyes. “No, the anniversary of the day we recalibrated Bashful,” he says sarcastically. “Yes, our wedding anniversary!”

Jemma shakes her head. “That’s impossible. We _just_ had our first anniversary a few months ago!”

“Yeah, twelve months ago!” Fitz shakes his head and walks away from her. “I should’ve known you’d forget.”

Jemma’s jaw drops. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fitz throws his hands in the air and turns back around to face her. “It means that you’re always forgetting about significant -”

“That’s not true - I remembered your birthday -”

“I mean, maybe I could understand forgetting our _first_ anniversary, but it’s been two years and you-”

“Or are you forgetting that I got us those tickets to -”

“Not to mention that you completely forgot about Valentine's -”

“I told you - I didn’t forget! We both agreed-”

“I don’t know why I’m still surprised -”

“- it’s not even _real_ holiday - it’s made up by Hallmark and Godiva to -”

“Oh, _this_ again. You do know ‘consumerize’ is not a real word?”

“Well, you were perfectly fine with me not celebrating Valentine's Day when I would spend it with you instead of my boyfriends at the Academy!” Jemma glares at Fitz. He’s refusing to look at her, instead staring at the floor with his hands on his hips.

There’s a rustle from the other side of the living room, and to Jemma’s horror, Victoria Hand is stuffing her notepad and pen back into her purse. “I think I’ve seen enough for today,” she says, standing and slinging her purse over her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry - that was terribly rude of us - you really don’t have to leave-” Jemma babbles, walking quickly towards the sofa where Hand had been sitting.

Hand adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose with one finger. “As Dr. Fitz mentioned earlier, it _is_ a Saturday, not to mention your anniversary. I should let you two sort this out.” With that, she turns and lets herself out of their flat.

As soon as the door clicks into its frame, Jemma covers her face with her hands. “Oh my God. We’re going to prison, Fitz!”


	6. Chapter 6

Fitz sighs and makes his way over to Jemma. He wraps his hands around her wrists and gently pulls her hands away from her face. “Hey, come on. We don’t know that.”

Jemma sinks onto the sofa, pulling Fitz down with her. “I’m so sorry.” She looks up at him, her eyes watering and lower lip trembling.

Fitz smooths his thumb over her knuckles. “Don’t be - I’m just as responsible for that argument, if not more.”

Jemma shakes her head slightly. “It’s not that, Fitz. I mean, it is, but -” Jemma takes a deep breath. “I _am_ sorry for forgetting. I am. But I’m mostly sorry that it’s been two years. I know you were trying to help me and that it was supposed to be temporary, but now it’s been two years and you’re still stuck with me.”

Fitz frowns. “I don’t feel stuck with you. Do you feel stuck with me? Because if you want to date, Jemma, you can. I know this isn’t -”

“I don’t want to date,” Jemma cuts him off. “I just feel bad that you feel you can’t date. Because you can, you know. I wouldn’t mind.”

Fitz looks down at their entwined hands. “I don’t want to date either.” He clears his throat, then looks up at her face, meeting her eyes. “Jemma, I know you feel like I was doing you this huge favor by marrying you, but you have to know that I did it as much for myself as I did for you. You’re my best friend in the world, and I couldn’t stand the thought of you leaving. And now I get to work with you and live with you and pretty much spend all my time with you, and I don’t know, maybe that’s not healthy, but you’re my favorite person in the world and there isn’t anyone else I’d rather spend my time with.” Fitz presses his lips tightly together. “But I don’t want any of that to make you feel obligated to...you know.” He gestures vaguely towards their bedroom. “Do what we were doing earlier.”

Jemma smiles at him, a brilliant smile that tells Fitz she’s happy, despite the unshed tears still lurking in her eyes. “You’re my favorite person too, Fitz. And I am grateful that you married me and that it allowed me to stay here, but it’s more than that. I love that we can spend hours together after dinner without saying a word, and that it feels comfortable and right. I love that I get to fall asleep next to you at night and wake up next to you in the morning. I love that I get to see every single one of your moods, like when you’re grumpy when you’re hungry, or when you’re feeling sleepy and silly before you take your Sunday afternoon nap, or when you’re terrified of the bugs that show up in the bathroom.”

“They didn’t scare me - they just surprised me!” Fitz protests.

Jemma ignores his interruption. “You’re the kindest, funniest, most brilliant person I know. And so I don’t want you to think that any of _that_ ,” she gestures towards their bedroom, “was out of obligation. Because when I think about all the things I love about our life together, I think what I might love most of all is _you_.”

Fitz’s eyes widen. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You love me?” he asks uncertainly.

Jemma looks down, unable to meet his questioning gaze, and nods.

Fitz scratches behind his head. “Um, the way best friends love each other?”

Jemma furrows her brow, uncertain as to whether he’s being willfully obtuse or if he seriously doesn’t get it. She forces herself to look him in his eyes. “No, Fitz. The way a wife loves a husband.”

Fitz just stares at her all bug-eyed for a moment, and Jemma thinks that this is it, that she’s ruined everything, but then he’s tackling her onto the couch and kissing her as though it’s their first and last and every kiss encompassed in this one moment. He pulls away briefly to tell her, “I love you too, Jemma.”

Jemma smiles at him. Her heart soars, buoyed by relief and giddiness. She tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him back down to her, parting her lips against his.

Fitz pulls away again, his eyes searching hers. “I mean, as more than a friend,” he clarifies.

“Right, got it.” Jemma leans up to meet his lips again, pulling him back down with her. She loves this feeling, of his weight on top of her and the couch cushions under her, of being surrounded by warmth on all sides.

Fitz breaks apart from her, sitting up. “What I mean is, I love you the way a husband loves a wife.”

“Yes, Fitz, I got it,” Jemma groans impatiently. “We love each other. Can we please go back to kissing now?”

Fitz frowns. “Shouldn’t we go out to dinner first before we go any further?” he asks. “Somewhere nice?”

Jemma grabs at his shirt, pulling it over his head. “Tonight,” she promises. “But we’ve been married for two years, and I’d rather not wait for our third anniversary to consummate our marriage.”

“In that case...” Fitz climbs off the sofa and Jemma thinks she might actually spontaneously combust out of frustration, but then he’s scooping her into his arms, carrying her bridal style towards their bedroom. “But only because you insisted,” he teases.

Jemma links her arms around his neck. “Such an accommodating husband,” she sighs playfully. “However will you brave it?”

Fitz smiles softly at her as he pushes open their bedroom door. He places Jemma gently on their bed and climbs on top of her. “I’ll do my best to power through.”

\----------

In the end, it’s not the recounting of their history or the terms of endearment or even the hickeys that convince Victoria Hand of the legitimacy of their marriage. It’s the argument they got into over Jemma forgetting their anniversary.

When Fitzsimmons get the news that they’re in the clear, they celebrate by going on a belated honeymoon to the Seychelles.

“You know,” Fitz says one night into Jemma’s hair, his body wrapped around hers. “It occurs to me that were married for 104 weeks before we consummated our marriage.” He moves Jemma’s hair over her shoulder and starts pressing kisses into the back of her neck, slipping his hand under the strap of her bra and pushing it over her shoulder and down her arm. “And _someone_ told Immigration that we’re intimate with each other five times a week. So if you think about it, we have a lot to make up for. 520, to be exact.”

Jemma laughs, turning in his arms and pushing him onto his back. “I’m not worried. I don’t think we’ll have a problem reducing that deficit.” She climbs onto his body, straddling him.

Fitz raises an eyebrow, moving his hands to grip her hips. “I don’t know, Jemma. It’s a pretty big number.”

Jemma leans down to press a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back to smile at him. “I know. But we have the rest of our lives.”


End file.
